Read Soldier of Fortune Online
Authors: Edward Marston
Soldier of Fortune (10 page)
Dorothy
Piper was pleased by the change in her sister. Ten days after Captain Daniel
Rawson had left the country, Abigail seemed to have found some peace of mind at
last. She no longer stayed in her room, pining for her missing admirer and
scolding herself for what had happened when they had last met. Nor did she
disdain food and drink any more. Abigail had somehow regained her appetite. She
looked better, dressed more smartly and took a more positive attitude to life.
Having locked herself away for so long, she now resumed her daily walk with her
maid, Emily, a plump young woman who was very fond of her mistress and who
responded to her every whim. Dorothy believed that the maid had been partially
responsible for the marked improvement in Abigail and she thanked her.
Two
more days elapsed and her younger sister's spirits seemed to lift even more.
Dorothy could not understand it. No letter had arrived from Daniel Rawson and
she was certain that Abigail had not written one to him. She decided to
confront her sister next morning and find out exactly what had cheered her up
so much. But when she came down for breakfast, there was no sign of Abigail.
Thinking that she had gone for an early walk, Dorothy waited for a couple of
hours before searching for her sister again. It was all in vain.
Unknown
to her sister, Abigail Piper and her maid were sailing down the Thames estuary
on a ship that was bound for The Hague.
Daniel
Rawson had every reason to dislike Henry Welbeck. In almost every way, they
were direct opposites. While Daniel revelled in military life, Welbeck loathed
it and never stopped complaining about its many shortcomings. Captain Rawson
was a cheerful optimist but Sergeant Welbeck was a sour pessimist. The one took
his pleasures where he found them while the other was a confirmed bachelor with
a deep suspicion of women. Religion provided the other profound difference
between them. Daniel was so committed to the Protestant cause that he was
prepared to fight to the death for it. Henry Welbeck was an unashamed atheist.
Yet
the two men had, improbably, become close friends. Welbeck was older, stouter
and decidedly uglier than Daniel and he had a fiery temper that cowed the men
under him. Fearless on the battlefield, he was a veteran soldier who had saved
the lives of many of his own troops by prompt action. Most of his battle scars
were hidden by his uniform but the long, livid gash down one cheek was a
visible memento of the dangers of fighting the French.
'I
hate the army,' said Welbeck disconsolately.
'Then
why did you join it?' asked Daniel.
'I
thought it would make a man of me. When the recruiting officer came to our
village, I was a scrawny lad who'd never been more than ten miles from the
cottage I was born in. I was stupid enough to like what I heard, Dan. The
officer made it sound wonderful.'
'It
is
wonderful when you get used to it, Henry.'
'We
were tricked,' moaned Welbeck. 'They fed us on arrant lies and as much ale as
we could drink. By the time we were sober again, we found that we'd signed our
lives away - and for what?'
Daniel
grinned. 'The chance to meet me, of course.'
'I'd
rather forego that pleasure and stay out of uniform.'
'What
about the other delights of army life?'
'I
didn't know there were any, Dan.'
'There's
the satisfaction of serving your country.'
'Where's
the satisfaction in being shot at, stabbed at, kicked at, sworn at and spat at
by a load of greasy Frenchies and their allies? All I do is to give the enemy
target practice.' He pointed to the scar on his cheek. 'How satisfied do you
think I felt when I got this?'
'Very
satisfied,' said Daniel. 'You killed your attacker.'
'He
haunts me every time I look in a mirror to shave.'
May
had brought warm sunshine and the army had assembled as regiments left their
winter quarters to join the column of march. By the middle of the month, they
had crossed the River Meuse near Ruremond on pontoon bridges. It was at this
point that Marlborough joined up with his men. It was also an occasion for
Daniel Rawson to meet his discontented friend again. As evening shadows dappled
the field, they were standing outside a tent in the encampment. Their regiment
was part of a formidable army, comprising 14 battalions of infantry and 39
squadrons of cavalry, supported by 1700 supply wagons pulled by 5000 draught
horses.
'We'll
give the French a drubbing this year,' Daniel prophesied.
Welbeck
grimaced. 'It will be another wild goose chase.'
'I've
caught a lot of wild geese in my time, Henry.'
'Well,
they didn't speak French, I know that. We can never get these bastards to stand
still and fight. And what the hell are we doing here, anyway?' he complained.
'Why did we get dragged into a war of the Spanish Succession in the first
place? I don't give a damn who puts his arse on the Spanish throne.'
'You
should do,' said Daniel.
'Why?
It makes no difference to me.'
'Yes,
it does. Spain itself may be weak but it still has its colonies and
dependencies. Think of Mexico, Cuba, the Canary Islands, Sicily, Sardinia,
Naples, Milan, bits of the Americas - not to mention the Spanish Netherlands.
Do you want France to control that empire? They'd go on to rule the world.'
'Let
them - as long as they leave England alone.'
'But
they wouldn't, Henry. If they conquer Europe, they'll look to overrun us next.
Would you like to see French soldiers in London?'
'Yes
- if they were hanging from a gallows.'
Daniel
clapped him on the shoulder. 'We agree on something at last,' he said.
'I
just want this war to be over,' said Welbeck sadly. 'I seem to have spent a
lifetime running after French uniforms.'
'If
we destroy their army - as we will one day - you'll be able to run after French
women instead.'
Welbeck
snorted. 'Women are more trouble than they're worth, Dan. That's why I keep
well away from them. I've seen the damage they can create. One of the best
things Corporal John ever did was to forbid whores to ply their trade among the
army. The men didn't like it at all,' he recalled, 'but it made them better
soldiers.'
'Our
commander cares for his men,' said Daniel. 'That's how he got the nickname of
Corporal John. He doesn't hold himself aloof. He knows how hard life in the
ranks really is and he's done his best to improve the lot of the average
soldier. Thanks to him, we always have plenty of surgeons travelling with us.
Thanks to him, we always have provisions awaiting us when we camp.'
'I'd
still rather be home in England.'
'Then
why have you stayed in the army so long?'
Welbeck
gave a rare smile. 'It needs me, Dan.'
Most
officers did not consort freely with the ranks but Daniel was an exception to
the rule. He was happy to spend time with people like Henry Welbeck and to
learn what the men he commanded were thinking and feeling. Critics warned him
that making himself so approachable would lead to a loss of discipline. It had
not happened in Daniel's case. If anything, his men respected him even more.
'Where
exactly are we going, Dan?' asked Welbeck.
'Put
that question to our commander.'
'You
spent time with him in England. What did he tell you?'
'Precious
little,' replied Daniel. 'All I know is that he means to spring a few surprises
on the French.'
'In
his place, I'd be bored with this campaign. It goes on and on.'
'The
Duke will bring it to a conclusion sooner or later.'
'Then
it had better be sooner,' said Welbeck, wagging a finger, 'because he's not
getting any younger. What about his family back in England? He spends so much
time away from her that anyone would think he doesn't get on with his wife. Is
that true, Dan?'
The
question caught Daniel off guard. His mind went back to the quayside in Harwich
when he sensed a rift between Marlborough and his wife. Something was troubling
his commander and it did not bode well for the campaign. Fond as he was of
Welbeck, however, he was not ready to confide his worries on so sensitive a
subject.
'No,
Henry,' he said, contriving a smile, 'it's not true. The Duke and Duchess are
happily married. I can vouch for that.'
John
Churchill, Duke of Marlborough was glad to be reunited with his army. The sight
of massed ranks of soldiers always inspired him and he fervently hoped that
this year he would be able to deliver the decisive victory that they deserved.
When the messenger arrived in the camp, he had several letters for the captain-general,
many of them from military allies requesting orders. The letter that claimed
priority, however, was the one from his wife, Sarah, and he retired to his tent
to read it in private.
He
opened it with an amalgam of hope and trepidation. Before he had left England,
his wife had accused him of having an affair and expressed her anger in the
most forthright terms. Though she had agreed to see him off at Harwich, she
left him in no doubt about her feelings of betrayal. As he read the familiar
calligraphy, Marlborough's heart was pounding and he steeled himself against
further unjustified allegations of adultery. They never came. Instead,
Sarah's
letter contained a heart-felt apology for misjudging her husband and begged him
to forgive her. So eager was she to make amends and to attest her love that she
offered to join him on the campaign.
Marlborough
was overjoyed. His writing materials had already been unpacked so he sat at the
little table to pen an immediate reply.
I do this minute
love you better than ever I did before. This letter of yours has made me so
happy, that I do from my soul wish that we could retire and not be blamed. What
you propose as to coming over, I should be extremely pleased with; for your
letter has so transported me, that I think you would be happier being here than
where you are; although I should not be able to see you often. But you will see
by my last letter, as well as this, that what you desire is impossible; for I
am going up into Germany where it would be impossible for you to follow me; but
love me as you now do, and no harm can come to me. You have by this kindness
preserved my quiet and, I believe, my life; for until I had this letter, I have
been very indifferent of what should become of myself. I have pressed this
business of carrying an army into Germany, in order to leave a good name behind
me, wishing for nothing else but good success. I shall now add, that of having
a long life, that I may be happy with you.
When
he had signed the letter, he read it through again then looked once more at his
wife's missive. A huge burden had suddenly been lifted from his shoulders. He
was now able to devote all his energies to the campaign. Reassured that his
wife loved him once more, and that she had accepted how unfounded her
suspicions had been, Marlborough felt capable of anything. He got up, summoned
his secretary and began to work through the official correspondence with
renewed enthusiasm. Sarah's letter had been a good omen. Not even the might of
France could stop him now.
King
Louis XIV had ruled for so long that he seemed a permanent fixture on the
French throne. His dominant passion was a love of glory and he had pursued it
enthusiastically on the battlefield and in the boudoir. It found its most
visible expression in the building of Versailles, the sumptuous palace that
became both the home of the Court and the centre of administration. In defiance
of all advice,
Le Roi Soleil
,
as he was dubbed, chose to live in the country, well away from the stench of
Paris and its teeming streets. At immense cost, in terms of money and of the
lives of many workmen who perished there, Versailles rose from the marshes to
become the largest and most opulent structure in France. Because it had no view
to please the eye, Louis had one created for him, surrounding the palace with
gardens that were unmatched in size and splendour anywhere in Europe.
It
was here that he lived in luxury, following an unvarying daily routine by the
clock and conducting a war against the Grand Alliance while enjoying an endless
round of balls, plays, operas, musical concerts and
fetes.
Though he sported a magnificent periwig and wore the rich apparel befitting a
French monarch, he could not entirely disguise the effects of age. Now in his
mid-sixties, he was overweight and puffy. Since most of his upper teeth had
been removed during an agonising operation almost twenty years earlier, his
smile had a kind of sinister comicality to it - not that anyone would dare to
laugh at him. The king was impossibly vain, single- minded and peremptory. He
brooked no opposition.
He
was in a private room at Versailles when Louis de Rouvroy, Due de Saint-Simon,
a leading courtier and trusted friend, discussed the conduct of the war with
him.
'Let
me remind you of the earlier counsel you were given, Your Majesty,' said
Saint-Simon reasonably. 'At the very outset, your advisors were not at all sure
that it was wise to provoke another war when our finances were stretched and
our army was in sore need of more recruits.'
'I
provoked nobody,' snapped Louis. 'They provoked me.'
'Your
retaliation was a little hasty, Your Majesty.'
The
king glowered. 'Do you have the gall to criticise me?'
'No,
no,' answered Saint-Simon with an emollient smile, 'your word is final and I
would never gainsay it. On the other hand, Your Majesty, we do have to consider
the implications.'
'So
do I, man,' asserted Louis. 'When the Dutch and the Austrians declare war on
France, our country is under threat.
That
is the only implication I see.
Bless me!' he went on, clicking his tongue in irritation. 'Queen Anne of
England has also joined this alliance. Even a woman is taking up arms against
me! Am I supposed to stand by and do nothing?'
'That's
not what I'm suggesting, Your Majesty.'
'I'm
not interested in suggestions.'
'As
you wish, Your Majesty.'
'Do
not question my ability to make the right decisions.'
'I'd
never doubt them for a moment,' said the other tactfully.
'Do
we not have the finest soldiers in the world?'
'Yes,
Your Majesty.'
'And
are they not led by the best marshals?'
'They
are indeed, Your Majesty.'
'Then
let's have no more bleating about shortage of money and men.' He was about to
dismiss Saint-Simon when a messenger entered the room and bowed. 'Stay here,'
he said to his companion. 'The news may be important.'
Beckoning
the messenger across, the king took the despatch from him and broke the seal.
As he read it, he frothed with indignation. He thrust the despatch at
Saint-Simon.
'Read
that!' he ordered. 'The Duke of Marlborough is leading an army towards the
Moselle. Do you see what that means? He has the effrontery to invade France!'
'The
Dutch would hold him back from such audacity,' said the courtier, scanning the
despatch. 'They have always done so in the past. Yet this intelligence
contradicts their former policy,' he went on, as he finished reading. 'If he is
heading for Bonn, he must indeed be thinking of a strike towards the Moselle.'
He returned the despatch. 'This is grave news, Your Majesty.'
'I'll
draft new orders for Villeroi at once,' said Louis angrily. 'He is to intercept
Marlborough and stop him from making any advance on French soil. I'll not have
my territory invaded by anyone. It's a humiliation that will not be borne.'
'I
heartily agree with you, Your Majesty.'
The
king was shaking with fury. He was so accustomed to hearing good news from the
battlefield that he believed his armies were invincible. The notion that
someone would dare to encroach on French soil was anathema to him. He read the
dispatch again before scrunching it up and hurling it at the floor. His lip
curled in derision.
'Marlborough!'
he growled.